


Don't Tell a Soul

by mypassionfortrash



Series: Roger Taylor fics and one-shots [30]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Look away if you're easily offended, Roger's drum solos are sinful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 12:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypassionfortrash/pseuds/mypassionfortrash
Summary: You're a straight talking merch girl on Queen's latest tour and you have a knack for pissing Roger off. You never see eye-to-eye, but when he makes a few minor adjustments to his drum solo, you can't help but get a little bit hot under the collar.





	Don't Tell a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!

A merch girl with a lot of opinions and a habit of pissing Roger off.

That summed you up perfectly.

He didn’t care for you. You didn’t care for him.

That much was plain.

But you couldn’t resist riling him up at afterparties when you had both drunk too much; the worst came when you dared to question why on earth Queen would allow Roger to have a self-indulgent drum solo slap-bang in the middle of their set.

It was a joke. Delivered as a joke. With a cheeky wink in Roger’s direction.

It even won a few laughs from Brian and Deacy; Freddie thought it was rather droll, too. But not Roger.

Roger’s face fizzed, flushed scarlet as he slammed his glass down on the table. As great as he was at uniting everyone, he could also reduce an entire party of forty to stunned silence. He stood up, every eye in the room fixed on him, then he jabbed his finger in your direction. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but it’d serve you well to know when to shut up,” he seethed. Then, he turned and scuppered out of the room, leaving you all dumbfounded.

“What on earth was that?” Freddie remarked, shaking his head.

“You’ve really done it now,” Deacy followed. “He’s going to hate you forever for that.”

Brian pondered, scratching his chin. “He’s very sensitive about his drumming.”

—————————————————————————

Loading everything into the venue was a pain in the arse. You always aimed to have all your stands set up before Queen sound checked - usually before the venue’s own merch staff showed up.

The day after your bust-up with Roger was particularly brutal. The muggy summer heat meant that after multiple trips between the truck and the venue, lugging god knows how many boxes of t-shirts, the only way to cool down was to dump a bottle of water over yourself right there in the foyer. Dripping with sweat and water, and doubled over a merch stand, you tried hopelessly to wheeze some breath into your lungs.

It slipped your mind that you were standing in the thick of a hectic foyer with road crew and musicians bustling all around. They could see you. But one voice caught your attention, mortifying you even more.

It was Roger.

“Hi,” he said, hovering over your shoulder. “About last night - can we talk about it?”

Your breathing finally gave out; your body apparently didn’t have the energy to fight him.

“I’m not going to argue with you. I promise,” he continued. “I just had a couple of ideas on how to make my solo a bit more interesting. Thought you’d be a good guinea pig since… you’re very outspoken.”

How diplomatic of him.

“We’re sound checking in an hour. I’ll play it for you.”

You turned to Roger to find him looking pathetically hopeful. He donned the sort of expression you had a difficult time saying no to, so you did the unthinkable; you gave a small nod.

His lips split into a bashful grin. He seemed utterly endearing today. “Great! I’ll see you then.”

You returned to your work-in-progress display while your brain spun, wondering why the fuck Roger was suddenly so nice to you; it eventually arrived at it being a cruel joke.

Nevertheless, that didn’t hinder you from loitering at the side of the stage an hour later, waiting to see what Roger had in store.

He passed you, glimpsing back as he strolled towards his kit.

You found your teeth boring into your knuckles when you fully took in how effortlessly handsome he looked in his skintight blue jeans and his oversized white shirt, buttoned up to his chest, sleeves pushed up to the elbow. A cigarette dangled from his lips, trailing shimmering smoke into the air around him as he played.

He started slow. Easygoing. Nothing to write home to your mum about. But about midway through, his pace hastened, gathering blistering momentum. Sweat beaded down his temples from the exertion and the heat; his entire body thrashed wildly while he thumped out a solo that thundered through your own.

Only when he had finished and smugly set down his sticks did you realise that you’d forgotten to breathe for two whole minutes. That’s how it felt, at least.

Your heart pounded in your chest when Roger came back to you. Even though his shirt was drenched in sweat, he smelled so intoxicating that you just wanted to bury your head against his chest. So fixated on the delicate curls of hair peeking out of his shirt, you didn’t even notice him talking. You just heard noises. Peering up in a trance, you managed to mumble a disoriented: “what was that?”

“The solo - was that an improvement?”

“I - I think they’re going to love it,” you bumbled.

Roger narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, jutting out his hip like a petty teenage girl. “You bitch! You weren’t even listening, were you?”

Dragged away from Roger’s chest a second time, your eyes met his. “I was!”

“I don’t think you were. Did you get distracted?”

“No!”

You did. But to be fair, he was undeniably distracting. Just the sight of him in front of you had you tensing your thighs together. It was just a shame you didn’t have much time for him as a person.

“You’ve very distracting,” you blurted. The ache between your legs had taken the wheel, and your brain had temporarily shut down.

But it worked. Roger raised his eyebrows, staring you up and down. “And you’re not?”

Fuck. He was going there. And it made your heart pound.

“Coming in here in a soaking wet t-shirt and those shorts. It’s a wonder the crew get any work done with you around.”

“Well, they’re certainly too nice to make a move.”

Roger smirked at you, assessing the situation for a moment, then he grabbed your arm to lead you through into the backstage area and a myriad of deserted hallways. Both of you were too wracked with anticipation to say anything, but you knew where this was heading. You wanted this.

Finally, Roger stopped, shoving you into the wall. His body pressed so firmly into you that no matter how much you twisted with need, those efforts were futile. His mouth lingered just out of reach, taunting you as you tried to catch your breath for the second time that day.

He edged closer, towards your throat. “Just so you know,” he hummed, “I’m only doing this because I haven’t seen anything better.”

“You’re disgusting,” you gasped, relishing the sensation of Roger’s tongue and his teeth gliding over your skin. A delighted whimper gave you away.

“Then why do you like it so much?” Roger asked. He lost no time in pawing between your legs like he knew exactly what he did to you; he knew what he’d find beneath those shorts of yours. “Tell me why you’re doing this?” he purred.

“Because you looked so fucking good up there. And because I can.”

Roger snickered, gently guiding your head up to suck heavy, urgent kisses on to your jaw, en route to your lips.

“Stop fucking around, Roger,” you scolded. “If you’re going to fuck me, fuck me.”

Roger took a step back from you, glancing around for any sign that you’d be interrupted, then he came back to you, tugging at the zipper on your shorts. He slid his hand in and immediately realised just how much his new and improved solo stirred you. “Well, these knickers of yours are fucking ruined, aren’t they? Bet you were thinking about this when you were watching me,” he remarked, removing his hand from your shorts. “Take these off.”

No sooner had you shimmied your shorts and your underwear down your legs, but Roger had seized you by your hips, hoisting you up and forcing you to cling to his neck, locked on to his hips. “Don’t fucking tell anyone,” you seethed, freeing his cock. He was thick; your fingers barely met around his girth as you drew your hand around it, eventually lining it up against your pussy.

Roger rammed into you in one brisk motion, taking your breath away. His face was buried in your neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t want the rest of the crew taking turns on you,” he hissed as he gained pace. “I want this tight little cunt all to myself. Any time I like.” He removed himself from your neck to look at you with wide eyes. “Understand?”

Roger fucked you so ferociously that words escaped you. All you could muster was an enthusiastic nod and incoherent babbling as he impaled you on his cock. Anyone could hear you, anyone could walk by. But that was part of the appeal.

“Touch yourself for me,” Roger ordered. “Amuse me.”

You hastily reached between your legs, doing precisely as Roger told you, frantically rubbing away at your clit while he pounded you into the wall.

The slapping sound of him thrusting into you reverberated through the corridor, merging with Roger’s animalistic growls and your fraught moans. You were shocked no one heard and came to see if everything was okay with the racket the two of you made.

The way Roger studied you, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes darkened and swimming with passion, flitting between your cunt and your eyes. It was enough to fire a shudder through your body, offering you a taste of what was to come. The grip your cunt had on him tightened.

“That’s it, milk my fucking cock. Be a good girl for me,” Roger purred. “You’re close, aren’t you, darling?”

The surges of ecstasy that coursed through you grew evermore frequent the harder Roger fucked you until you writhed and trembled involuntarily, at a loss even just to moan for him.

When your orgasm waned, you lacked the strength to cling to him any longer, easing yourself down on to your feet. Your legs felt like jelly as Roger whirled you around to face the wall and bent you over at the waist. He tugged at your hair for extra leverage.

Your fingers clawed at the cold, hard concrete to steady yourself while Roger resumed his onslaught. But his advances were growing increasingly jagged. He hunched over you; the hand once tangled through your hair was now firmly planted on the wall beside your face. You could feel every grunt from him coming right from his chest, growling through you. And the warmth; the warmth of one final push into you as he filled you with rope after rope of thick, hot cum. It only made you want to go for another round with him. But he was on a strict schedule.

No sooner had Roger finished inside you, leaving the evidence to ooze down your legs, but he was yanking up the zipper on his jeans, ready to rejoin his bandmates in their dressing room.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, his tone unceremonious and almost clinical.

You clambered to pull up your shorts and your underwear. “Yes.”

Of course, he hadn’t waited for your answer. He knew you weren’t about to refuse; he knew your type and had fucked plenty of them.

“Hey, Roger?”

He was already a few metres away from you, but he turned back.

“Remember not to tell anyone about this. I’d hate for it to hurt my chances with anyone else on the crew.”

“You fucking wish.”


End file.
